


In Which John Says No

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Part of the "Poor John" series I seem to be perpetually writing, Post-Reichenbach, Sad times ahead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've been kissing John (his mouth tastes of tea and biscuits, mainly, with a faint hint of mouthwash) for less than five seconds, and already I can sense something is terribly amiss. It's been three years, eight months, two weeks, five days, twelve hours, and nineteen minutes since our last kiss, but I don't blame the strange rigidity of John's spine on me being out of practice (although I am; the idea of kissing anyone who is not John is distinctly repugnant). Thus it is not exactly surprising when John slips his hands between us and presses them into my chest, pushing me a step backwards. Not a surprise, no, but still rather unwelcome."</p><p>Sherlock comes home to find things have changed.<br/>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which John Says No

_Sherlock:_

I've been kissing John (his mouth tastes of tea and biscuits, mainly, with a faint hint of mouthwash) for less than five seconds, and already I can sense something is terribly amiss. It's been three years, eight months, two weeks, five days, twelve hours, and nineteen minutes since our last kiss, but I don't blame the strange rigidity of John's spine on me being out of practice (although I am; the idea of kissing anyone who is  _not_ John is distinctly repugnant). Thus it is not exactly surprising when John slips his hands between us and presses them into my chest, pushing me a step backwards. Not a surprise, no, but still rather unwelcome.

He's gasping, and shuddering, and everything about this is just wrong. I've come home, haven't I? And he claims to have forgiven me (his body language suggests this claim to be true, so I have no reason to doubt the validity of it; likewise, John never lies to me unless the lie is of little consequence, like pretending he hasn't eaten the last tart despite the crumbs on his sleeve and the lemon paste at the corner of his lips). So why this odd reaction? I'm intrigued…and a touch annoyed. I don't often allow myself to get caught adrift in a tide of emotion, but I won't deny there are certain needs of mine that have gone unfulfilled in my absence from London. (Needs that didn't exist before John, granted, but needs nonetheless.) Arranging my features into something I imagine might look cautious, I hazard, "John?"

"You can't," John pants, and I raise my eyebrow at him as he shakes his head, still breathless and pink in the face. (I try to pretend that I don't enjoy him when he's breathless and pink but it's nearly impossible. Still, these are not exactly the circumstances under which I imagined him thus.) Putting his hand up between us (defensive, a stop sign in human form), he shakes his head again and groans, "You can't just…"

He's angry, clearly, but not with me. He's angry with himself. Why? There's something shameful in the twist of his mouth. Why be ashamed, John Watson? It's not as though we've never done this before. So what has changed?

Ah.

"Mary?" I ask, and he looks up at me sharply before bowing his head.

Picking at a loose thread on his jumper, John whispers, "You can't just… _barge_ back into my life and expect things to be the same." He brings his gaze up to mine; have I ever seen his eyes so dark, so conflicted? "They aren't, Sherlock. This…this can't happen."

"You are mine," I say, because he is. He's as much mine as this flat, as much mine as the shirts in my wardrobe and the microscope in the kitchen. He belongs to me. I cannot imagine any scenario in which this would not be true. But there is John, shaking his head again and drawing in rough, trembling breaths.

"You  _died_ , Sherlock," he says softly. "If I had known you were coming back…" A sigh: remorse, wistfulness, longing. He wants me still; I don't understand his hesitance. "But I didn't. I didn't know. So…I moved on."

I know other people have a hard time seeing things clearly sometimes, but this isn't exactly a difficult puzzle. I found the solution before I even realized there was a problem. "Cut loose the understudy," I drawl, already bored with this. "The star has recovered." Poetic, I think. I'm in something of a poetic mood. Hmph. John's glaring at me; perhaps he prefers a more direct approach. "Fine, shall I spell it out for you? You are mine. I am yours. There is no room for a third party in this endeavor, I think we'll both agree. If it is the extramarital physicality that bothers you, I'll gladly wait until you've cleared up the muck. Well, I say 'gladly'."

Oh. That expression is not much better. "If you think I can really be so callous," John hisses, his eyes narrowed, "then you don't know me very well, Sherlock. I'm not leaving Mary."

"Not leaving-?" I do hate repetition, but the words bear repeating. "But… _oh_. Obligation? Really? How incredibly…" I search for a word that doesn't sound like an insult (not that I would expend that effort on anyone else, but this is  _John_  and he's already upset), settle on: "Honourable."

"Only you could make 'honourable' sound like you're taking the piss," John spits, and there we go: I've cocked it up. Well, I tried. "You, and your brother."

I bristle at the comparison. "Are we to spend the evening sparring, then? Because I'd rather hoped for sex, or at least a bit of Chinese and a foot-rub." I'd settle for crap telly and a cuppa, but I won't tell John that. Best to start the bidding high and let him work me down, if he must.

"Sherlock!" Exasperation, but he can't hide that small hint of amusement in his voice from me. Nor can he hide the undercurrent of wanting, and the even paler shadow of sadness. I can see it quite clearly, all of a sudden: I've broken his heart. It's not just obligation to Mary that keeps him from falling into my bed- he doesn't trust me not to hurt him again. John can tell, like no one else can, what I'm thinking. He steps forward, pain and concern written so clearly on his face that the sight of it leaves a physical ache in my guts, like I'm saying good-bye to him all over again. His voice, so soft, is the final blow: "Sherlock?"

I discover I'm no longer standing; I've settled down on the sofa, my hands wringing in my lap of their own volition. John is kneeling in front of me, his face pale and his eyes damp. "Sherlock. Talk to me. Please."

"You're leaving me," I say (in someone else's voice, a child's voice). John, my John, who has always been so loyal and so good, John who is my moral compass and my heart and my only friend…is giving me up. I don't have to tell him that it feels like betrayal: he can hear it in my voice.

Just like I can hear the bitterness in his when he responds, quietly but not unkindly, "You left me first."

My throat feels raw and uncomfortable; my eyes are stinging, and I brush at them impatiently. "Go home, John," I say, my voice unsteady.

"Sherlock-" he starts, but I shake my head and say, "Go home," and after a long, silent moment in which neither of us move or breathe or dare to meet each other's eyes, he nods- once, a soldier's nod,  _I'm doing this because I must_ \- and stands, touching my knee briefly before sliding on his coat and trudging down the stairs. I hear him pause at the bottom, one foot still poised on the last step…and then he leaves, the door creaking shut behind him.

He leaves, and I lie back against the sofa, squeezing my eyes closed. London, outside my window, is a menagerie of noise and violence. I don't care about any of it. I don't find it hateful; I don't find it fascinating.

I find it empty.

The world is suddenly lacking.  _I_  am suddenly lacking. Three years is a long time, I've discovered. A lifetime is a far more agonizing fate.


End file.
